


I Enjoy You, But Be Careful

by LMT



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-09 21:13:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1998018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMT/pseuds/LMT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place at Harrenhal.  Canon-divergent.</p><p>Tywin requests assistance of a more personal nature from his cupbearer.  (Obvious consent problems are obvious, folks!)</p><p>I expect this fic to end badly for all concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Warning: So, uh… Emboldened by the success of my Arya/Hound experiment which the general consensus says was** **not** **creepy despite the age difference…. this story contains sexual content with** **Arya and Tywin** **. Due to age and station differences,** **obvious consent problems are obvious.**

**Takes place in Harrenhal. It's not a love story – or even a friendship story this time. (And after this, I am** _**done** _ **writing sketchy Arya pairings. Srsly.)**

* * *

Tywin scowled into the flames. He’d awoken in a _state,_ after an embarrassing dream, and he had been irritable and restless all day as a result.

He conducted his meetings and sent everyone away, and was now sitting in an armchair by the fire preparing himself to face the inevitable. He was not looking forward to it. Abusing himself was too undignified to be enjoyable, and too boring, and it took too long. He had no choice, though. None of the women in the castle he knew to be trustworthy, and he would not risk word of his weakness being leaked to his men.

He sighed. Stared into the fireplace. Willed his body to behave better. It had been so long since last time that he’d begun to dare hoping that his urges were gone forever. But of course not. As if he didn’t have trials enough during this time.

“Water, milord?” His cupbearer materialized from the shadows. He had no idea how long she’d been standing there.

It struck him suddenly that she was clean and that he trusted her. He let her sit in on his war councils; how much more sensitive could _this_ secret be? Besides, if she knew enough to disguise herself as a boy for safety she would know better than to tell anyone something like this _._

“Girl…” he looked her up and down briefly. Considered the best phrasing of the order.

It turned out his care was unnecessary. Her eyes widened and she took a step back.

“ _Stop_ ,” he said with irritation. “You look like a baby deer in crosshairs.” Her brow knitted, though she was clearly trying not to actually _scowl_ at him, and she shifted to stand taller.

“Better. Now: go put down that pitcher, check that the door is barred, and then come over here.” She was stiff with dread but still obeyed him, and in recognition of that he said something to reassure her. “Calm down. I’ve not lain with a woman since my wife died, and I’m not planning to start now.”

She blinked. “I’m- I’m sorry, my lord. It’s just the, the way you were... looking... I thought you, um, wanted.”

“You thought correctly,” he said curtly.  “I’m in need of release tonight and I want you to assist me.”

“But you just said…?”

 _Damn_ her for her innocence, he would have to spell it out after all.  “With your hands,” he said.  “Do you understand what I mean?”

“ _Oh._ Yes, my lord. I mean I’ve never, um, done it. But I’ve watched. Boys. When they thought everyone else was sleeping.” She waited, watching him, clearly not knowing whether the answer she’d given was correct or not.

“Good. Then come here,” he said, beckoning. She relaxed, looking only wary instead of terrified. “On your knees.” He spread his own knees, so that she could get between them. After one more glance at the door, he started unlacing himself. “You've never done this before?”

“No, my lord.” She brushed her hair back off her face. “But just tell me how, and I’ll…”

He took out a vial of oil and slicked himself efficiently, then showed a few firm strokes. “Like that. Your hands are small; perhaps you’d better use both.”

“I’m strong,” she protested, and curled her hand where his had been. Her other arm rested on his thigh. “Like that?”

He let her try a moment before issuing instructions. “Firmer grip, and twist at the top. Like this.” He closed a hand over hers and demonstrated.

“Oh. All right.” She was strong, as she’d said, and she moved on him with confidence. Even better, and more rare, her presence didn’t annoy him. She was quiet, biting her lip as in concentration and looking mostly at what she was doing. The one time she flickered her eyes up to his he frowned at her, and she didn’t look up again.

He sighed and relaxed back in his chair, closing his eyes, enjoying it. It was good.

It could be better, however. “Other hand to the base,” he said after a while. His voice surprised him; it was thick and fogged.

“Here?” she said uncertainly, touching her free hand to the shaft. “Or-…?” And she shifted down to cup the sack beneath.

That was better than what he’d had in mind. “That,” he decided. “Gently. No, not _that_ gently,” he added a moment later. The girl took direction well; a few more minor corrections and her technique became almost perfect.

When he got close he became more difficult to satisfy, though. It wouldn’t be efficient to try and explain it all to her, and he disliked that kind of conversation anyway. Faster stroke, but slower twist. More forceful tug upward, without a more forceful squeeze. Instead he covered her hand with his again and gave himself what he wanted. It didn’t take long at all.

“Now,” he said. “In your mouth.” She only cocked her head in confusion, so he pulled her down with his free hand til his manhood smeared oil on her lips. “Open,” he said, and she obeyed.

It was almost too late; he was spilling already. He shoved deep into her mouth, gripping the back of her skull. She was exactly the right size to fit into his hand, which was fortunate because she was struggling mightily. He held her until he was done.

When he let go, she turned and spat all over the floor. Wiped her mouth and spat again.

“ _No._ ” Tywin reached down and cuffed her like a bad dog. “That is disgusting. Wipe it up _now,_ and next time you’ll swallow it all down. If you ever spit again I’ll have you lick the floor clean. Is that clear?”

She was still coughing and spitting – but into her hand. “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry,” she added without looking up at him, “But that oil burnt my tongue. It’s like soap and rotted flowers together. Sorry.”

He leaned back in his chair to catch his breath. _Soap and rotted flowers together._ Blame the euphoria that follows a good climax, but that amused him. “Clean it up,” he repeated, less coldly.

She nodded and took a rag from her belt. 

He took out his own rag and wiped himself down before tucking himself away. There was oil still on his hands and it smelled just faintly floral – nothing to complain about. When he touched his tongue to his fingertip, though, his lips pulled back. She was right: it was a biting chemical bitterness, and he hadn’t even gotten enough to know what it tasted like.

He cleared his throat. “Next time, you may spit _neatly_ into your hand.”

She paused in her wiping. “Thank you, my lord.” Knew better than to look up at him.

* * *

**TBC.**

**That's it for the explicit sex acts. There's still content next chapter, but it's not very graphic.**

 


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Not as graphic as prior chapter, but inherent consent issues remain.**

* * *

 

 _Next time._ She’d known better than to ask him when exactly _next time_ might be, but it was plain to see that he was pleased with her and that she’d accidentally picked a whole new name to add to her pile: _Tywin Lannister’s whore._

(She knew she wasn’t _really_ a whore because she wasn’t opening her legs for him and he wasn’t paying her, but still, she didn’t really have a better word for what he wanted.)

Except for the terrible taste of the oil she wouldn’t have minded the whole thing – or at least, she wouldn’t have minded it if he were someone else. As it was though, he was Lord Tywin and she hated him and if she had to do this, she'd better at least be able to use it for something good.

Such as kill him.  She'd heard enough of his battle planning to be confident that Robb was going to beat him for good if these same stupid commanders kept being in charge of battles. If Tywin took over himself, though, who knew what would happen. People said he was as good in the field as he was at a council table.

So, she needed to kill him. For that she needed to lull him, and now she knew how. She’d already gotten closer to him tonight than ever before.  Not close enough, though. He hadn’t undressed, and she had no knife that would get through his leathers.

Well. She would wait, and watch, and get another chance soon enough.

* * *

Four days later and she was starting to doubt the plan; he hadn’t called her to play whore again and maybe _next time_ was never going to happen. So, she took matters into her own hands.  She crept up when he was alone, and while she poured his drink said quietly: “Do you want me to bar the door tonight, milord?”

She paid attention to the goblet and pretended not to see the look he was giving her. Her face was smooth as silk, blank as a parchment. “No,” he said, but when she turned to leave he called after her. “Wait: why not, I’ll sleep better.”

She barred the door and came to kneel at his feet. Watched him unlace, put her hand on his leg, learned these breeches too. Too tough for any knife she had (so far).

He didn’t talk to her as much this time – maybe she was learning to please him better. He did close his eyes again. She noticed that. She also noticed that one of his hands started out loose in his lap, but tensed and twitched when he got closer. These were good things to know.

She told herself that they were worth the foulness of the oil on her tongue. Like last time, he pulled her down at the end and spilled into her mouth, and she was glad of the grabbing because at least she didn’t have to fight the urge to pull away.

She spat more _neatly_ this time, into her own hand, one, two, three times but the vile taste was still there. Three tries at getting rid of it was enough; she didn’t want to try Lord Tywin’s patience. She wiped the slime into her rag, balled it up and stuffed it back in her pocket.

When she looked up Lord Tywin was holding his goblet out to her impatiently. “Sorry” she said, and scrambled to her feet. “I’m sorry, my lord, I’ll get more.”

He frowned. “No, I meant take it. For the taste.”

“Oh. Um-… thank you.” She took a gulp and again pretended she didn’t feel him watching her.

* * *

Her chance came two weeks (and three awful mouthfuls) later. Lord Tywin was up working late and had ordered her to stay and attend him. He had her pour him water and fetch him books and carry his finished letters to the side table, but mostly, it seemed he wanted someone to complain aloud to about the incompetence of others.

“Excellent; by all means let us put such sensitive information into writing.” Or: “Does he think I have nothing better to do than read eight lines of flattery at the beginning of every note? I should hang him for the wasted time. Wasted ink. The very air he wastes by breathing.”

Arya mostly just stood still in the corner. Watching him. He had changed out of his daytime clothes into his sleepwear, and his robe was quilted and heavy but beneath it the trousers were just light silk.

When at last he threw down his pen she swallowed and stepped forward. “Shall I bar the door, my lord?” she asked. Too eagerly.

Lord Tywin turned to her, and the look of exhaustion he had been wearing was gone all at once. He looked very aware, very smart... and very suspicious. “I do expect prompt obedience,” he said, “But I've never asked you to _volunteer_ for that. Why do you?”

She swallowed. Knowing he might ask someday she had an answer all ready, but still it was hard to lie to him while he was pinning her with that clear sharp gaze of his.

She lowered her eyes. “Milord I... just want to please you.”

“Clearly. But why? You're from the North somewhere. You hate me.”

“No!” she protested, looking up. And then down again; lying to his face was impossible. “I mean, right now I'm no one. And my feelings about you are beside the point.”

“I won't ask you again, girl.” He waited.

She took a breath. “It's just... My lord, you're going to leave Harrenhal eventually. And, and I was hoping that... if I pleased you... maybe you'd take me with you?”

“Out of the question,” he said at once. (Too bad – she could have used him to get close to the Northern army, then escaped somehow and got to Robb.) He frowned. “And why on earth would you want to come with me? It's safe here.”

She had an answer for that too. “Not for me, my lord,” she said quietly. She knew she probably looked like a _baby deer in crosshairs_ again, but that was all right because fear would make this next thing more believable. “Not once you leave.” She managed to look into his eyes for this; it was possible because it was the truth. “I’ve seen the way Ser Gregor looks at me. And I know what he likes to do to little girls. Once you're gone...” She didn't finish.

Lord Tywin looked her up and down. Considering. “You're right,” he said at last, “And that would be a waste. When I leave here I'll tell Ser Gregor that I expect to find my cupbearer waiting for me on my return – alive and unharmed.”

 _He believes me._ The smile of relief she gave him was genuine. “Thank you, my lord. Truly. Thank you.”

He nodded stiffly and waved it off. “Very well. Bar the door.”

She came to him almost giddy. _This is it. Be patient. Pick the right moment._ His robe was open and she could feel the heat of his thigh through the thin silk. She could hear Syrio whispering into her ear. _All men are made of water._ Here, the water flowed close to the surface. She just needed to find the right instant to pierce him and let it out.

She touched him exactly the way he liked it, watching. Before long his eyes drifted closed. She waited til his fingers clenched and released, his brow creased in concentration. “Faster,” he murmured, and she obeyed. He surely wouldn't notice a little shift of her weight now.

She kept one hand moving on him, and with the other slipped a knife from inside her clothes. It was small, from the kitchens, but sharp enough for silk.

She jammed it into Lord Tywin's thigh with all her strength and slashed free.

In the instant before she was tumbling over backwards as he surged to his feet, she saw blood blooming on the pale gold silk. _I did it,_ she had time to think, before his foot was drawing back for a kick. A dull hollow _clunk_ , and then darkness.

* * *

TBC.

Okay, that will be it for the sex scenes in this story. One chapter left. Whuddya think so far?

 


	3. Chapter 3

Gregor and his men returned the girl in the morning, as ordered.

(There had been a certain amount of satisfaction in handing her to Gregor in particular, after she had just begged protection from Gregor and he'd been so generous as to promise it.).

Tywin had specified that the girl was not to be maimed or rendered unrecognizable in case she had value as a hostage, and it seemed that they'd obeyed him by only a narrow margin. Her features were all still there but her face was battered, swollen and bloody. Under her shirt he found enormous bruises, as well as burns and bleeding whip marks. (Gregor being Gregor, there was no need to check her breeches; he already knew what he'd find _there_.). Some of the mess would certainly scar.

 _Good,_ he thought. He himself would bear a scar from last night too. Worse, until the wound healed he could not ride, and could only walk with pain and difficulty. Worse still, if she'd aimed a little better she might have _killed_ him. She'd clearly been trying.

He wanted to know why. (And _how_ , he supposed, although most of the how was plain enough: he'd behaved like a trusting fool. His own fault entirely, and he entirely deserved what he'd gotten.).

Why did she hate him enough to throw her life away with such a desperate maneuver? And if she did, why had she waited so long to act? Had she been planning this all along? On someone's orders, or on her own initiative?

Most importantly: _who was she_? He no longer believed that she was just some Northern brat caught up by accident in Gregor's net. She was _someone_ .

(At least, he hoped so. He _hoped_ her name had worth, because he was about to make either a prisoner or an example of her and the latter would be a terrible waste.)

He shook her and watched her moan and stir. Her eyelids fluttered but didn't truly open, and her head rolled weakly from side to side. Excellent: if she were lucid she would only lie or stonewall. Gregor had confirmed as much, telling him after a little experimentation that unless she was questioned _hard_ she would yield up no reliable information. Tywin didn't want her questioned hard until he knew what her value was, but perhaps in the meantime he could get _some_ answers at least.

He darkened the room, and crouched near her on the floor. Pulled her up onto his lap and held her close. “Shhhh,” he whispered. Rocking her.

She came to life a little: whimpered and clutched at him. He could feel her chest heave, but if she was crying she was doing it silently. She mumbled some confused half-words, and then croaked something a little more intelligible: “Father.”

So she had a father. Someone who was affectionate with her, someone close enough to Tywin's build to fool her body. That ruled out a great many northmen, actually. Some too cold, others too fat.

“Yes,” he whispered, just a slow breath of air. One man's whisper sounded much like another's.

She grabbed harder, writhing and squirming. In her ill-formed whimpers he caught _it hurts_ a time or two.

He smiled in the dark. _I'll bet it does._

“Shh-hhh,” he soothed again. Too many wounds to touch her back, so he stroked her hair instead. “Home?”

She nodded against him and dug her fingers into his clothes. Sobbed aloud a few times. Then: “I want to go _home._ ” The words were determined, but garbled and indistinct. No wonder, with her mouth so swollen.

“Home where?” he whispered. “Your bed at Harrenhal?”

“ _No!_ ” She coughed. Sobbed into his chest. “ _Home,_ ” she repeated, stubborn even in her daze. “Home. To Winterfell.”

Winterfell. She came from the Starks' own-...

He froze. Her _eyes._ Her _face._ He shifted her into what light there was, but he couldn't see much of either. (And now he cursed Gregor for leaving her in too poor a condition to examine.). Still, he thought carefully of everything he'd seen of her over the last weeks and admitted it was possible.

“Girl,” he said sharply, and rubbed hard over some of her cuts. She grimaced, lips pulling off her teeth, an expression of pain and endurance that looked nothing like a girl but quite a lot like Ned Stark now that he thought about it. If only he'd ever seen Stark lurking around fearful and uncertain, he might have recognized the girl from the start.

When he stopped tormenting her, her head lolled back. There was no point in substantive interrogation now; she was almost unconscious and probably hardly even able to understand him. Still, he had to know for certain.

“ _Girl,_ ” he snapped again. She twitched in response to his voice: she could hear at least.

“ _Jeyne. Lilibet._ ”

No sign of interest.

“ _Arya._ ”

“Mm?” she groaned. Grey eyes opened. Arya.

* * *

The End.

Maaaaaan I kinda hate to end it here because I want to know what happens. Oh well. I promised myself I'd be done with Arya & Tywin after this chapter, and so I am. Let me know what you thought.

 


End file.
